The Royal Secret Page 16
“No. I told you I wasn’t going to pursue it, unless your forensic friend came up with anything.” She glanced at him. “Did he?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. I popped into the office on the way home and there was a note on my desk from my mate. Apparently the paper was too delicate to be properly analyzed.”
“Oh well,” she said as casually as she could. “Do you have the letter? I’d like to keep it anyway.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. It disintegrated during the chemical process. My mate did say he thought it was over seventy years old. Sorry about that, Jo.”
“Never mind. It was probably of no importance anyway. Thanks for trying, Simon.”
Joanna was proud of her control, when all she really wanted to do was to rugby-tackle him to the ground and punch his lights out for his betrayal.
“That’s okay.” He was staring at her, his surprise at her calm exterior obvious on his face.
“Besides, now it seems like I have more pressing problems of my own to attend to, rather than flying off on some wild goose chase. My beloved editor has decided—for reasons best known to himself—to transfer me from the news desk onto Pets and Gardens. So, I have to focus on how to make my stay there as short as possible.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Didn’t he give you a reason?”
“Nope. Anyway, at least I don’t have to doorstep anymore, just wander round the Chelsea Flower Show in a floaty dress and a pair of white gloves.” She gave him a sad shrug.
“You seem to be taking it very well. I would have thought you’d be fuming.”
“What’s the point? And as I said, tonight I’ve had a few gins to take away the pain. You should have heard me in the pub earlier. Anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ll take a shower and then hit the sack. The shock’s worn me out.”
“You poor old thing, you. Don’t worry, one day you’ll be the ed and can get your own back,” Simon said, trying to comfort her.
“Maybe.” Joanna stood up to head for the bathroom. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, night, Jo.” Simon kissed her on the cheek, then once he heard the shower turn on, he went into his bedroom and shut the door. He took out his mobile phone and dialed a number.
“Simon here, Ian. Thought I told you not to leave messages on my home phone—Haslam’s staying here.”
“Sorry, forgot. How was the training?”
“Tough, but it’ll pay off. What’s up?”
“Phone Jenkins at home. He’ll tell you.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
“Night.”
Simon dialed the number from memory.
“Sir, it’s Warburton.”
“Thank you for calling. Did you tell her the letter had disintegrated as planned?”
“Yes.”
“Did she take the news well?”
“Surprisingly so.”
“Good. You’re to report straight to me at nine tomorrow morning. I have a special assignment for you.”
“Right, sir. Good night.”
Simon clicked off the phone and sat down on his bed, giving his tired muscles a rest. It had been a grueling week at the agency’s base in the Scottish Highlands, running drills for counterterrorism training. On top of that, tonight he felt he was being forced to step into murky waters, as if his personal and work lives were colliding. And at all costs, he was desperate to keep them separate.
The following morning at a quarter to eight, Simon tiptoed through the darkened sitting room to reach the shower and realized Joanna had already left. He picked up the note she had propped on the kitchen table.
Went home to get some clean clothes before work.
Thanks for having me. See you soon. x
There was nothing wrong with the note, but knowing her so well, he had the distinct feeling something was up. Last night, she’d been far too calm about the letter’s disappearing.
Simon would have bet his life that she was still on the trail of her little old lady.
15
As filming in Norfolk continued, Zoe completely immersed herself in the character of Tess, the woman who had become an outcast in her village for having an illegitimate child. Zoe could not help but draw parallels between their lives. And only hoped she wouldn’t come to the same tragic end.
“Keep it up, Zoe, and you’ll be heading for a BAFTA,” said Mike, the director, as he drove her back to the hotel after watching the rushes. “You’re positively glowing for the camera. Bed early for you tonight, darling. We have a long day tomorrow.”
“Of course. Thanks, Mike. Good night.”
They collected their keys from reception, and Zoe walked up the steep, creaking stairs to her room. Her mobile rang from inside her handbag as she opened her door. Fumbling among the mints, lipsticks, and other detritus, she finally found it and closed the door behind her before answering.
“It’s me.”
“Hello ‘me.’ How are you?” she whispered with a secret smile.
“Oh, hectic as usual. And missing you.”
Zoe sank onto the bed, cradling the phone to her ear as she drank in his voice. “I miss you too.”
“Can you make it to Sandringham this weekend?”
“I think so. Mike says he wants to do some early morning mist shots, but I should be free by lunchtime. I’ll probably fall asleep by seven, though. I’ll have been up since four.”
“As long as it’s in my arms, I don’t care.” There was a pause on the line. Then, “God, Zoe, just now I wish I was anyone else.”
“I don’t. I’m glad you’re you,” she said soothingly. “Only a couple more days and we’ll be together. Are you sure it’s safe?”
“Absolutely. Those who have to know are aware of the delicacy of the situation. And remember, discretion is their job. Don’t worry, darling, please.”
“It’s not me, Art, it’s Jamie I’m concerned for.”
“Of course, but trust me, will you? I’ll have my driver wait for you outside the hotel from one onward on Friday. I’ve got York Cottage in the grounds for the weekend, told the rest of the family I want some privacy. They understand. They won’t disturb us.”
“Okay.”
“I’m counting the hours, darling. Good night.”
“Night.”
Zoe clicked the phone off and lay on the bed staring at the cracked ceiling of her hotel bedroom, a smile drifting across her face. A whole weekend with Art was more than she’d ever enjoyed before.
And even for Jamie’s sake, she could not refuse.
Having taken a hot bath, Zoe went downstairs for supper. Most of the cast and crew had driven to the nearby town of Holt to try an apparently excellent Indian restaurant, so the small dining room, with its dark wooden cottage-style tables and chairs, was blissfully empty. She sat down in the corner near the fire and ordered the local pork casserole from the young waitress, realizing she was starving.
Just as her food arrived, William Fielding, the old actor playing her father, appeared, swaying slightly, at the entrance to the restaurant.
“Hello, m’dear. All alone?” He smiled, his gentle eyes creasing at the corners.
“Yes.” Then, a trifle reluctantly, Zoe said, “Why don’t you join me?”
“I’d like that very much indeed.” William shuffled toward her, pulled out a chair, and eased himself into it. “This darned arthritis is eating away at my bones. And the cold here isn’t helping.” He leaned in so near that Zoe could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Still, should be happy I’m working, and playing a man a good few years younger than myself. I feel like your grandfather, not your dad, m’dear.”
“Nonsense. Age is how you feel inside, and you skipped up those stairs during filming today like a spring chicken,” Zoe said, trying to comfort him.
“Yes, and it nearly bloody well killed me,” he chuckled. “Still, can’t let our revered director think I’m past it.”
The waitress was hovering by the table with a menu.
“
Thank you, m’dear.” William put on his glasses and perused it. “Now, what do we have here? I’ll have the soup, the roast of the day, and a double whiskey on the rocks to wash it down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would have a nice glass of claret, but the stuff they serve here is no better than vinegar,” William remarked as he removed his glasses. “Enjoying the lunches, though. Location catering is always one of the treats of filming, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. I’ve put on almost four pounds since the beginning of the shoot,” Zoe admitted.
“Looks like you could do with it, too, if you don’t mind me saying. Suppose you’re still getting over the death of dear Sir James.”
“Actually, I don’t think I’ll ever really get over it. He was more of a father to me than my real dad. I miss him every day, and the pain doesn’t seem to get any less,” Zoe admitted.
“It will, m’dear. I can say that because I’m old and I know. Ah, thank you.” William took the whiskey from the waitress and drank a large gulp. “I lost my wife ten years ago to cancer. Didn’t think I could live without her. But I’m still here, surviving. I miss her, but at least I’ve accepted that she’s gone now. Lonely old life, though. Don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have the work.”
“A lot of actors seem to live to grand old ages. I’ve often wondered if that’s because they never really retire, just carry on until they—”
“Drop down dead. Quite.” He drained his whiskey and signaled for another. “Your grandfather lived until ninety-five, didn’t he? A good innings if I may say so. It inspires me to think I could have another thirteen years or so still to go.”
“Are you really eighty-two?” she said with genuine surprise.
“To you, my dear, this very year. To the rest of the business, I hover around sixty-seven.” William put a finger to his lips. “I only ever remembered precisely how old I was because I knew Sir James was exactly thirteen years older, to the day. We shared a birth date. Once celebrated it with him, many, many years ago. Aha! Soup, and it smells delicious. Excuse me while I plunder my bowl.”
“Not at all.” Zoe watched as William rather messily slurped the soup into his mouth with a shaking hand.
“So, did you know my grandfather well?” she asked when William had pushed the bowl away and ordered another whiskey.
“Yes, many, many years ago, before he became—and I mean quite literally—James Harrison.”
“What do you mean, ‘quite literally’?”
“Well, as I’m sure you know, ‘James Harrison’ was his stage name. When I met him, he was as ‘Oirish’ as they come. Hailed from West Cork somewhere—called Michael O’Connell when I first knew him.”
Zoe regarded him in astonishment. “Are you sure you’re thinking of the same actor? I know he was fond of Ireland, talked about it being a beautiful place, especially toward the end of his life, but I had no idea he actually was Irish. And it’s never mentioned in any of his biographies. I thought he was born in Dorset, and I certainly never heard a hint of an Irish accent in his voice.”
“Aha! Well, there you are. Just shows what a talented actor he was. He had the most brilliant gift for mimicry—could do any accent or voice one suggested. In fact, that’s how he began his career—as an impersonator in music halls. Surprised you didn’t know, being so close to him, but without a doubt, you’re descended from Irish blood.”
“Goodness! So, tell me, where did you first meet my grandfather?”
“At the Hackney Empire. I was only nine at the time. Michael was twenty-two and in his first professional job.”
“You were nine?” marveled Zoe.
“For my sins, yes. Born in a prop basket, that’s me,” William said with a smile. “My mama was in variety, too, and seemed to have mislaid my papa. So she took me to the theater when she worked, and I’d sleep in a drawer in her dressing room. When I got bigger, I used to do odd jobs for the performers—bring in food, take messages, and fetch and carry for a few bob. That’s how I met Michael, except, like everyone else, I used to call him ‘Siam.’ His first job was playing the genie of the lamp in the Empire pantomime. He’d shaved his head and darkened his skin, and he looked just like some pictures I’d seen of the king of Siam, with his pantaloons and headdress. The nickname stuck, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yes.” Zoe nodded, her supper forgotten as she listened to him.
“Of course, he was desperate to get into proper theater, but we all have to start somewhere. Even in those days he had charisma. All the young dancing girls used to queue up to go out with him. Must have been that Irish charm, even if by then he spoke with a plum in his mouth. One had to, in those days, you see, although he used to entertain us all with his Irish ballads.” William chuckled.
Zoe watched William carefully as he drained another glass. He’d had three double whiskies since he joined her. And he was recalling seventy-year-old memories. There was every chance he had James confused with someone else. She picked at her cooling casserole as his roast beef arrived.
“Are you saying he was a ladies’ man?”
“Indeed he was. But he always dumped them with such charm that they ended up loving him anyway. Then one day, halfway through the season, he suddenly up and left. After two or three days, when he hadn’t appeared for the performance, I was sent round to his lodgings to find out if he was ill, or had simply imbibed too much juice. All his belongings were still there, but, m’dear, your grandfather was not.”
“Really? Did he ever come back?”
“Yes, but it was over six months later. I popped round quite a bit to his lodgings to see if he’d returned. He’d always been generous with sweets and the odd few coppers if I ran errands for him. Then one day, my knock was answered. He opened the door with a smart new haircut and an expensive suit to boot. I remember him telling me it was from Savile Row. He looked like a real gentleman. Always was a handsome sod.” William chuckled again.
“Wow. This is some story. I had no idea. He never mentioned anything to me. Did you ask him where he’d been?”
“Of course I did. I was fascinated. Your grandfather told me he’d been doing some lucrative acting work and that’s all he’d say. He told me he was coming back to the Empire to continue his act, that it had all been arranged. And when he did, the management didn’t bat an eyelid. It was like he’d never been away.”
“Have you ever told anyone else about this?” she asked.
“Absolutely not, m’dear. He warned me not to. Michael was my friend. He trusted me when I was a young’un and I trusted him. Anyway, I haven’t got to the most interesting bit yet.” William’s rheumy eyes were alight with the thrill of entertaining his captive audience. “Shall we order coffee and wander through to the bar and the comfy seats? My backside has gone positively numb on these hard chairs.”
The two of them found a comfortable banquette in the corner of the bar. William heaved a contented sigh and lit up an untipped cigarette.
“Anyway,” he continued, “one day, a couple of weeks after he’d come back, he called me into his dressing room. He handed me two shillings and a letter and asked me if I’d run an errand for him. He sent me off to stand in front of Swan and Edgar—the department store by Piccadilly Circus, don’t you know? And he told me to wait there until a young woman dressed in pink came along and asked me if I had the time.”
“And did you?”
“Of course I did! In those days, for two shillings, I’d have gone to the moon!”
“And the woman came?”
“Oh yes. In her lovely clothes, with her clipped vowels. I knew immediately she was a lady. And I mean a real lady.”
“Was it just the once?”
“No. Over those few months, I met her ten, maybe fifteen times. I’d hand her an envelope.”
“And did she give you anything?”
“Square packages, wrapped in brown paper.”
“Really? What do you think was inside them?”
Zoe bit her lip. “Do you think he was involved in something illegal?”
“Could have been, but Michael never struck me as the kind of man to be mixed up in anything criminal. He was such a gentle man.”
“So what do you think it was all about?”
“I suppose . . . well, I always thought it was some kind of a secret love affair.”
“Between who? Michael and the woman you met?”
“Perhaps. But I think she was an emissary, just as I was.”
“You didn’t look inside the packages?”
“No, although I could have done. I was always a loyal bod, and your grandfather was so generous to me, I couldn’t betray his trust.”
Zoe sipped her coffee, feeling weary but fascinated, whether or not the tale was truth, fiction, or a little of both embellished by the passage of time.
“Then the next thing that happens is Michael calls me round to his lodgings and says he’s got to go away again. He gives me enough money to make sure I’ll eat well for a good year and suggests that I forget what’s taken place in the past few months, for my own sake. If anyone was to ask me, especially those in authority, I was to say I didn’t know him. Or at least, only in passing.” William stubbed out his cigarette. “And then it’s bon voyage, Michael O’Connell. Literally, my darling, he disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“You have no idea where he went?”
“None. Then blow me down, the next time I see Michael O’Connell is a good eighteen months later, and his picture is staring down at me from a theater on Shaftesbury Avenue under the name ‘James Harrison.’ He’d dyed his hair black, and was sporting a moustache, but I’d have known those blue eyes anywhere.”
Zoe looked at him in amazement. “So, you’re saying he disappeared again, then resurfaced with dark hair, a moustache, and another name? William, I have to tell you, I’m finding all this hard to believe.”
“Well.” He belched loudly. “I swear it’s all true, m’dear. Of course, having seen his picture outside the theater and knowing it was him, even with an assumed name, I went to the stage door and asked for him. When he saw it was me, he swiped me into his dressing room and closed the door. He told me it would be much, much better for my general well-being if I stayed away from him, that he was someone else now, and that it was dangerous for me to know him from before. So”—William shrugged—“I took him at his word.”